


when you could hear yourself breathe

by gericault



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 2016 World Series, Cleveland Indians, Comfort Sex, Feelings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, it's going to bring back some bad memories i'm so sorry, maybe don't read this indians fans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-01 23:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11496921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gericault/pseuds/gericault
Summary: Andrew's eyes are so big, he's so red and it looks good on him, the only thing in the world that's good, and Jason's aware that he probably looks pathetically needy right now and who cares, whocares,why shouldn't he finally ask for what he wants.





	when you could hear yourself breathe

**Author's Note:**

> so I read [this long interview with Jason Kipnis](https://www.clevescene.com/cleveland/as-the-tribe-enters-the-all-star-break-a-conversation-with-jason-kipnis-on-the-teams-struggles-his-struggles-and-how-they-can-get-back-to/Content?oid=8587241) and had a lot of feelings about Sad Gay Jason* and then I saw [Andrew Miller giving him honey eyes and looking extremely soft](http://www.foxsports.com/ohio/video/jason-kipnis-describes-facing-andrew-miller-in-a-crucial-at-bat-as-miserable-100716) and [waiting very patiently for his Jason hug](https://youtu.be/QmY3ppOeU8Y?t=3h1m24s) and then there was [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/BScim78Bzpt/) and SUDDENLY FIC HAPPENED, like WHAT, I'M AN NL GIRL
> 
> *I mean, he didn't come out or anything, but he was awfully vague about what kind of partner he's looking for

_October 10, 2016_  
_Fenway Park_  
\--

"I'm sitting next to the ALCS MVP right now," Jason says. He can't reach to put his arm around Andrew's shoulders because Andrew is built like fucking Stretch Armstrong so he's got his hand on the back of Andrew's neck, curly champagne-soaked hair tickling his knuckles.

"I'm sitting next to a second baseman whose wasted ass better not be jinxing us right now," Andrew says, and prods Jason in the side.

Andrew is amazing. Jason can't stop thinking about it. He's Bumgarner in 2014, only more so because a historically great October starter appears at least every decade but Andrew is a setup man and there's never been a setup man like him. He looms over the diamond like the mast of a tall ship. They're going to fly their championship flag from that mast. Never get ahead of yourself, the veteran guys say, Napoli and Rajai, when you plan the party before you've won the game you're fucked, but Jason's really drunk and he's looking at Andrew and the trophy is theirs already.

"Tall ships?" Andrew says. "What? Does booze turn you into a pirate?"

Although he can take it just as well as the rest of them, in fact better than most, that's about as much shit as Andrew ever gives out, and it makes Jason crack up and thump Andrew's chest with his hand. "Trying to say you're the best," he says, tugging at Andrew's neck so he has to lean down closer, the corner of his wide shoulder nudging into Jason's shorter, thicker one. "I'm calling it. MVP. Nastiest pitcher in the league. In baseball. Nobody can touch you."

"You're touching me," Andrew says, and he has kind of a funny smile on his face that Jason's not sure he's seen before.

"Nobody else," Jason says.

 

 

 _August 1, 2016_  
_Progressive Field_  
\--

From sixty feet six inches, Andrew used to be Jason's nightmare. Up close in the clubhouse, Jason can see him trying to smile back his sadness as he shakes hands and repeats names to learn them. Those eyes probably couldn't hide anything.

"Hey," Jason says later-- Andrew's sitting at his locker, head down; they lost, not that it was Andrew's fault, by that inning the game wasn't close. Jason claps his shoulder. "At least you can grow a beard now." Andrew smiles; maybe it's funny, maybe it isn't, Jason gets the feeling Andrew would smile either way.

The next morning Andrew appears in the locker room with dark stubble and Jason feels--

 

 

 _November 2, 2016_  
_Progressive Field_  
\--

"Fuck," Jason says, for about the ten thousandth time tonight, and then, "do you want a blowjob?"

"Pity head? No, I do _not_ want pity head," Andrew snaps back, and that's very out of character for him, snapping, but losing the World Series is out of character for all of them. Andrew doesn't give up runs. They don't lose.

Then Andrew seems to actually hear what Jason said and does a delayed double take. "Wait. What?"

Andrew doesn't give up runs and they don't lose and Jason doesn't do this with teammates. He doesn't do it with-- anybody, really. He hasn't had casual sex since the minors. There was a hockey player in Toronto last year, and he keeps downloading and deleting Grindr, but every time he's tempted to swipe right he has a premonition of a bad breakup and a vengeful ex and being outed on ESPN and the possible end of his career and he's long since realized that he can't ever be with a guy who has less to lose than he does.

But then, right now, he has nothing at all to lose. It's over. It's over for him and Andrew and Cleveland and Jason's going to have to go back to Chicago and there will be Ws in every window and he'll just burst into flames from the raw sense of failure, it's over, his life is over. So he might as well get Andrew's cock in his mouth, because what the fuck does he care.

"You didn't--" Andrew's staring at him with these wide eyes, and as Jason kneels and nudges his thighs apart he's starting to go red. "You didn't. Say what I thought you said. Right?"

"If it's pity head for anybody it's me," Jason says. "I need-- Christ, you're so _nice,_ just help me not feel like this for a minute, Miller--"

"I don't feel sorry for you," Andrew says. His hand lifts, as if he's going to touch Jason's cheek, and then falls back to his knee. "You didn't blow it. I blew it. Two runs--"

"I was on base once," Jason says. "Once. Two times we had RISP and I was the third out."

"Shut up," Andrew says. "You-- just shut the fuck--"

"So shut me up," Jason says. "C'mon. I know how to do this. I'm good at it. Make me shut up."

About an hour ago, he watched Andrew come out of the shower with a towel around his waist, go to his locker, get out his folded street clothes, put them on the floor and then sit down in the chair he's still in and just look at them. Jason puts his hand on the place where the towel's folded over itself. There are only a few lights left on; there are probably people still in the clubhouse somewhere, but they're the only ones in the locker room, him and Andrew, and their lives are over and who gives a fuck. Andrew's eyes are so big, he's so red and it looks good on him, the only thing in the world that's good, and Jason's aware that he probably looks pathetically needy right now and who cares, who _cares,_ why shouldn't he finally ask for what he wants.

He watches Andrew's throat move, swallowing hard, and then Andrew nods and unwraps the towel.

The kind of mood they're all in, Jason half expected Andrew to just grab his ears and fuck his throat till spit and tears ran down his chin; the kind of mood he's in, he would've been fine with it.

But Andrew's incredibly gentle, resting a hand lightly on Jason's shoulder, holding still and letting Jason set the pace, quiet except for the occasional sigh and a softly encouraging, "Yeah. Like that," and-- oh, God. His eyes are wet and it's not from being out of cocksucking practice. Andrew does touch his cheek now and Jason wants to tell him not to be sweet but he can't-- can't make himself do anything except open up as wide as he can and take as much of Andrew's cock as he can, try to choke himself on it, except Andrew stops him, pushes him back. Could Andrew make himself not be sweet? "Jason. Jason, I'm sorry, I-- you don't have to do this. You don't have to--"

"Please," Jason says.

"Jason."

"Please," he says again, not even bothering to wipe his chin or his eyes.

Andrew's actually stroking the side of his face, thumb along his cheekbone where the tears are, and he looks like he could cry too and Jason needs to make him come _right now,_ make him feel better _right now._ Then, thank God, Andrew's hand moves up the back of Jason's head and his fingers press just for a second, the most delicate urging gesture, and Jason lets out the breath he's been holding and opens his mouth for Andrew's cock again. He is out of practice, it's not easy, and Andrew's cock isn't noticeably big in proportion to the rest of him but in proportion to a normal-sized person-- Jason's grateful, though, because the difficulty of keeping his jaw relaxed and not gagging is driving the other stuff out of his head, and pretty soon, almost sooner than Jason wants, those long fingers are clenching spasmodically at the tired muscle of his shoulder, Andrew saying, "Jason, you should, I'm-- fuck--"

If his mouth weren't full he'd be saying _fuck yeah, c'mon, I wanna swallow your come, been thinking about it for months,_ so it's just as well that his mouth is full. He keeps it that way as long as he can, licking at the hot smooth skin until Andrew puts his hand on Jason's forehead and nudges him off, gently but firmly.

Jason wipes his mouth on the inside of Andrew's thigh, Andrew just looking at him and making no objection, and then he rests his forehead on the seat of the chair, between Andrew's knees. "I'm gonna wake up," he says, throat scratchy, trying not to cry again. "I'm gonna wake up and it'll be yesterday morning, ten hours to first pitch."

"C'mere," Andrew says, and just-- gathers him up, and they weigh four hundred pounds together, the chair's probably not going to take it but he's in Andrew's incredibly roomy lap, his back against Andrew's chest, and Andrew's arms are around him, one hand flat against the low point of Jason's sternum and the other one coming down to stroke his already-hard cock through his jeans.

There's just so much of Andrew to lean on and Jason does, his head falling back to Andrew's shoulder as he lets out a breath only to gasp it in again and cry out as Andrew gets his fly open and his hand on Jason's skin. "Please," Jason begs for the third time, far past being embarrassed about it.

Andrew makes a soft sound and starts to jerk Jason off, with a tight, steady hand. His beard tickles the side of Jason's throat and his breath is warm against Jason's ear when he says, "We're not gonna wake up. I'm so sorry. We're not."

Jason can feel the tension coming back around his mouth and eyes; he's about to start crying again. It's a testament to how long and how bad he's needed to be touched that he's still hard. A testament to Andrew, too, who is big and warm and whose hands move on Jason's body in a way he's afraid to call tender, but he can't think of another word. "It's okay," Andrew says, and Jason does cry then, softly, wretchedly, trying to swallow back the sound of it. "It's okay." His fingers are long and sure, rough where Jason needs them to be rough, winding him up tighter and tighter until a tearing sob breaks out of him and he comes, body jerking in Andrew's lap.

In the few seconds he's still helpless and shaking, before time starts again, he hears Andrew say, "I don't want to."

It feels real, it all feels real, but they don't lose and Jason doesn't blow teammates and Andrew doesn't make him come all over himself and tell him he hopes it isn't a dream, and touch his lips to Jason's temple like he's doing now, and Jason doesn't curl up against his chest and feel it rise and fall rhythmlessly as Andrew tries not to cry. All this is outside the rules of baseball, like penalties and tackles and traveling, and the rules of baseball frame Jason's life: his boundaries are the outfield walls and the basepaths are his guide and in the center of it all is the mound, and three months ago Andrew walked out of Yankee Stadium into Jason's grassy green world and put his toe to the rubber and he's been there ever since.

Jason's forehead is against Andrew's throat and he feels him swallow hard, and again, and then he says in a halting, gentle voice, "Maybe you don't want to go back to Chicago."

"I absolutely fucking do not want to go back to Chicago," Jason says, with a grim laugh.

"So... don't," Andrew says.

"Andrew, I live there."

"I don't mean _never._ I mean... give it a week. Till the parade's over and everything. Go somewhere warm." Jason can feel Andrew's chest lift as he takes a deep breath. "Florida's nice in November."

He looks at Andrew's huge hand where it rests on his thigh. "You live in Florida."

"Yeah." Jason's not sure if the hesitant softness in Andrew's voice means anything or if it's just exhaustion. "Maybe... come to Florida."

Jason doesn't answer immediately and Andrew adds, "I've got a boat. I'll take you out on the water, it's-- peaceful. Easy to... let go of things, out there."

Three months; he knows so little about Andrew, really. He knows that Andrew smiles and laughs easily, even when the joke is on him. He knows the little collection of motions that constitute Andrew between pitches, the tug on the cap brim, the slight roll of the shoulders as he turns to look for the signs. He knows the shade of Andrew's eyes. These small things. He knows how Andrew's cock tastes and the way he shivers all over when he comes. How much does Andrew know about him?

But they have nothing to lose. "If you want," Andrew says. "You know, just, uh. Think about it."

He's thinking about being fucked so hard he won't even be able to remember which city this year's trophy is in. A warm place, far from the Great Lakes chill, warm sun on his face, this warm body against him in bed. The shade of Andrew's eyes, how he tastes and how he comes. He's touching Andrew, Jason realizes, delicate, purposeless motions with his fingertips. "I am," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from that interview: "There were, of course, some anemic turnstile receipts during 2016 before the packed-house playoff games that brought back memories of the 455-game sellout streak. The kind when you could hear each and every heckle from the furthest corners of the stadium, the kind when you could hear yourself breathe."


End file.
